To Whom it May Concern
by pixienewt676
Summary: Astoria likes to write all her frustrations in a letter addressed to no one in particular. And Neville, for all his life, knew he was a nobody. In a world where people like the boy who lived and the brightest witch of her age exist, there Astoria and Neville are, two misfits creating a connection in the space of anonymity & shyness; friendship & love, in the silence. Druna implied.


_This follows the one shot I wrote named "Of Rose Thorns and Confused Aurors", do read it first if you like._

_Oh, and since this story has been left for quite awhile already, this does not follow through HP and the Cursed Child. Please do look at this as an AU after Deathly Hallows._

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**Chapter One**

**From Nobody, to No One**

Her last year has finally come, it was the last age of her excuse, the last year of her hiding, and ultimately, her parents' peak of finding the perfect pureblooded man to marry.

Three years ago, she was destined to be betrothed to Draco Malfoy. Their families saw a perfect match of them- they would have complemented each other. She believed in the picturesque possibility of being the Malfoy heir's wife. She cannot deny that she finds him attractive. If she'd be honest, she was actually looking forward to it. If you ask her, if she'd be arranged to marry a man she will never feel intimate with, might as well look at the realistic side; someone who can give her future children a great future and great genes. If there's anything Astoria Greengrass is good at, it's adaptation. She saw no problem with accepting the idea.

But that didn't mean she looks forward on changes. It was the opposite, actually. She loathed the way everything suddenly morphed into something she did not plan. To not know always has her anxious, she, now, couldn't see and draw details to her fixed future. She's absolutely blank and lost.

Draco Malfoy, she did not love him, no. But she felt.. cheated, robbed a future she has gotten in terms with. Now what is she to do with herself? As she recalls greatly, she's not the most sought out candidate nor was she the least likely to be picked, she's in the middle, average in the pureblood beauty and behavioral standard. She cannot duel to save her life- a trait that was a hit in the norms recently, she preferred charms over potions, and she loves Herbology like it's nobody's business. That's it for her, she's certain her mother and father will not catch a pleasing man who'd treat her good.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Greengrass?" Madame Sprout seemed to sense her lack of attention. She snapped back, blinking a few to the rose bush in front of her, seeing that she was halfway to almost shredding some, absent-mindedly.

"I'm sorry, Madame, my mind drifted elsewhere rather suddenly"

She smiled sheepishly, placing the equipment onto the nearest table.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm most certainty am"

"If you say so, dearie. It's not like you to have your head in the clouds" The professor could only give a wary, thoughtful glance and a light squeeze on her shoulder, almost second guessing if it really was the usual level headed Astoria Greengrass she's talking to.

With the knowledge, she cannot help but slump upon her seat. The heaviness of her bitter thoughts weighed her down, things that she lacked cascading from her brain, down to her empty, dainty- useless hands. She simply couldn't be that optimistic, that imaginative. She wasn't exactly logical either. The professor's words prickled a thorn to her fragile esteem.

On the middle ground, the forgotten number in the order, there she stood.

She accepted her defeat like how she accepted her hair was not blonde and curly like Luna Lovegood's, or even as slick and straight as her sister's. She only has her limp waves that always fail to look glamorous. And she cannot do anything about that except hide it with her ribbons.

Roses. They occupied her vision once more. A whole array of red roses were blooming back at her, trying their hardest to stand out.

She scooped one beneath it's thorns, twisting it back and forth. What was the probability that that certain rose will be picked? Knowing all of them looked the same, some quite paler, or petals were wider, but still, that one, it belonged to the average and they stay behind, hoping for hands that'll choose them in spite of their dullness.

But Astoria Greengrass is no romantic, certainly not a dreamer. Ever since she knew, her bloodline would be the death of her. She never allowed herself to dream of a huge fireplace, a small couch that smelled worn out from being nestled in by two people, a scattered garden that still flourished with the talent of hard work and green thumbs. Her own cozy nook,far away from prying eyes and nosy mother-in-laws. But that fate was not decided for her. The direction of her life will be anything but exciting, or passionate.

Astoria Greengrass is just hopeless. It was wrong of her to hope that maybe she'd be content in the stiff arms of Draco Malfoy. She may never feel those she's secretly, unconsciously seeking, but at least she'd have a garden to watch bloom, a bed that can be warm during winter, and a house that felt too much like the home she grew up in. But even Draco Malfoy retaliated and fought all the odds just to not get stuck with her boring self. Nobody probably will. Sometimes, she doesn't want her own company either.

And so she tried to pick herself up, her posture poised as natural as possible. She has a lot in her head and being around her safe haven was unbecomingly overwhelming. She needed to get everything out of her system before the day ends. Her self loathing can be refilled by tomorrow anyway.

Standing abruptly, she mused somewhat distracted, "well, I shall go now, Madame Sprout," the Herbology professor strained her head from the other side of the bush, her forehead wrinkled and raised.

"Safe travels, sweetie"

The Greenhouse was nice, welcoming, unscathed by the horrors its home had endured. Looking about, the castle strived hard to rebuild its former wonder, but a lot of those who had experienced the war have difficulty remembering what it once was, yet grasping the beauty and appreciated the remains just the same.

In every corner of the wide, empty hallways were portraits of the fallen students and faculties who risked their lives on that eventful day. Her skin shivered as she recall the only time she ever did ran and it was when fatal incantations criss cross above her head. Manic feet strived hard not to ever stop, even if her knees buckled and extremities turned numb. Passing by such once bright, youthful pairs of eyes, eyes she will never again encounter in the halls wrinkled with laughter, at the loos with a sort of wonder at some rumor, during classes as they stare hopelessly in space. She felt selfishly grateful as her heart beat loudly in her ears, reminding her that she survived. Merlin knows it was a miracle.

The Death Eaters are gone now, and the bodies rest in peace. They did not die in vain. She repeated it over and over in her head, as though she still can't believe it, until she reached the Owlery.

Inside the circular structure, perches were occupied by feathered friends with eyes wide as though perpetually discerning. The walls were covered with windows without glass, allowing the owls to come and go as they please. She puffed one large breath, wrapping her cloak firmly to her figure as the wind from the windows hit her strongly.

Onto the third floor of the Owlery, she settles into sitting herself to that arching window, overlooking the Forbidden Forest. Her great gray owl, Gertrude (who always looked as though grumpy), liked that area, for some reason she cannot comprehend. Though during her Second year, she found herself idly passing time there as well, writing in her parchments of thoughts she cannot dare say in front of others for fear of public humiliation, or tainting their name.

Besides the angry expression, Gertrude flew in front of her toes and cocked her big head to the side. She knew that whenever her beloved Astoria is upset, or lonely, she often goes to the Owlery when she scribbles to her parchments, or just to talk to Gertrude with human language the owl's still slowly understanding. But Gertrude knew of every emotion though, every play and quirk of her puzzling witch's manners. And right in that moment, Astoria was frowning slightly, brows rising up and down at the center in a slow manner, a sign that she was deep in her thoughts.

"It's pathetic Gertrude," Gertrude cannot do anything but shake ever so slightly, "this silly problem of mine. Is this an existential crisis? Probably. And will I do something about it, instead of wallowing into my self destructive self pity? Most certainly not"

Astoria was mumbling much more incoherently for the owl. She has her left hand gripping her quill tightly as the feather sway back and forth, turning thoughts into output. Gertrude flew onto Astoria, nestling upon the witch's shoulder and peaked to her curious work.

_To Whom it May Concern,_

_ How can I phrase this without sounding like a spoiled little child? I am utterly and perpetually hopeless. It is as though life keeps making fun of me and is expecting me to laugh - there's nothing funny of it. What does it expect of me? To love it just the same when clearly it favors to forget me? Why is it that everybody seems to be moving into more and more and more of what they are destined to be, and I am left behind? _

_How can I make time stop? _

_With all of my silly agonies,_

As Astoria paused to recollect her thoughts, Gertrude whisked in and nipped on the parchment. The owl knew of Astoria's cycle, as after making the feather move back and forth too many times for Gertrude's liking, she'd crumple the parchment and abandon it to the deep dark ends of her knapsack, never to be reopened again. The owl decided she's had enough of the witch's silly human movements.

"Getrude" Not even Astoria's exclamation had stop the owl's quick and precise flight. Astoria can only watch helplessly with her hand planted atop the window pane, and the other vainly stretched to the direction of her companion.

Outside the arch, she could only watch as Gertrude flew in such speed as though from miles away, she'd seen something to hunt. Among the peaks of vibrant trees, the great grey owl has easily blended in, making it hard for Astoria to comprehend as to where she'd search for her embarrassing letter. Fortunately, to compensate her state, she remembered not even signing her nonsense.

Still, the mere thought of the possibility makes her embarrassed, her cheeks color and tummy swallow itself.

"Oh, what is it now, you pesky thing" she huffs, frowning as she sees her rather annoying friend take shape against the warm light of the sun.

The owl hooted happily, circling all around the witch in a slow, and unfortunately, teasing manner. "Gertrude, what is that? Have you gone mad?" Gertrude did not even had the decency to fake her guilt, she firmly believed her own wisdom, and such wisdom was what was best for her shy witch.

"You barmy owl," Astoria exhaled, glancing helplessly to the far curves of the greenery outside. "Bah, it's not like someone's gonna notice it right?"

Gertrude can only hoot, knowing how extremely well she's done.

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There are people who are just too good at noticing subtle details. Such noises are too often seen along dirt patches, or pavements; a dime, a nickel, a gum or even stools from Merlin knows which. These are often seen by those who often walk their head hang down, eyes strained, focused on not letting their clumsy feet fulfill their namesake. Oftentimes too, do subtle details take attention from anxious, stressed passerbys. And Neville, Neville Longbottom is clumsy, walks with bowed down head, and is perpetually anxious.

Therefor, it was no surprise to anybody that as he took a casual walk off to retrieve herbals from Forbidden Forest, a slight movement of something had fallen and tumbled helplessly near to his feet has brought his attention. He jumped slightly, blinking a few as a suspecting parchment was laid to his feet, as though it was actually addressed for him.

"A-anybody there?" He glanced around out of instinct, then tilted his head up ahead, searching for any other sign of life that could've left the letter. There were slight shuffles on the leaves of the huge sycamore tree, but the shades were far too think to even get a glimpse.

The letter must've been misplaced, and he ought to bring it back to the owner somehow. He examined the parchment, deducing that it must've belonged to a student since, and especially, it was not sealed and familiar bored and random sketches and blotted words here and there were littered. He stood on his ground, debating whether to open the letter or not. Yet, curiosity - amidst the guilt had won.

In his defense, he truly wanted to bring it back to the student. He's more close to their age and so it might be less embarrassing if he'd be the one who'd scan the message instead of the council in Hogwarts. He couldn't risk their time as well as the student's dignity if ever some personal writings were written. Besides, he will first look for the sender's name, and if it was already written, then that'll save both him and the student some unnecessary awkward talk.

Glancing back and forth one last time, he went back to the castle, completely oblivious of the owl staring intently down onto him.

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_That's our first part! What do you guys think? Do leave reviews, they are highly appreciated :)_


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